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About This Author
My name is Joy, and I love to write.
Why poetry, here? Because poetry uplifts its writer, and if she is lucky enough, her readers, too. Around us, so many objects abound to write about. Once a poet starts with a smallest, most trivial object, he shall discover that his pen will spill out what is most delicate or most majestic hidden inside him. Since the classics sometimes dealt with lofty subjects with a lofty language, a person with poetry in his soul may incline to emulate that. That is understandable. Poetry does that to a person: it enlarges the soul and gives it wings. Yet, to really soar, a poet needs to take off from the ground.
 
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Everyday Canvas #928515 added February 6, 2018 at 11:50pm
Restrictions: None
Back in the Day...
Prompt: What's your “back in the day, we...” story? Write about whatever.
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I don’t have grandchildren, except for those really nice ones in WdC who adopted me, and I am not going to bore them with any “back in the day,” story. But then, maybe I’ll relate an earliest memory or two, since while writing this, an incident or two came to me, incidents that may be suggestive of emotional blackmail. 
1. If I didn’t want to eat something or other my mother used to tell me, “You have to eat that. Children in…. are starving. (fill in the blanks. In my time, first, it was China; then Korea won the lottery) They can’t even find a bite of what you’re rejecting.” That always made me sad enough to eat whatever I was served.
2. One of my mother’s uncles had a fancy garden that he was crazy over. Once, when I was three years old, we went to visit him. Before we went, my mother told me not to ever pick a flower or a leaf or anything because those plants in that garden were a family and anything I’d pick would be separating a child from his mother and I would be hurting the plants’ children who'd feel much pain.
When we arrived there, the aunt told me to go out in the garden and enjoy the outdoors. I shook my head and said no and stood frozen. Then the uncle took me by the hand and led me out.
His was truly a beautiful garden, probably one of the best privately owned that I have seen in all my life. I was very careful only to walk on the walkways and not to step on the flowerbeds. The uncle picked a flower and handed it to me. I think it might be a pansy, but no matter, I immediately began bawling and crying my eyes out.
You can imagine what a surprised man he was because he himself was a lit teacher and knew a bit about child psychology. Yet, he couldn’t understand what got into me. By this time, the aunt had decided maybe the whole family should have tea in the gazebo since it was such a nice day. They were in the process of settling around the table in the gazebo. Hearing my loud wailing and lamentation, they ran to us to find out why I was sobbing and crying my eyes out.
I can’t recall what happened after that, but her uncle must have told my mother how to handle me better or something because I recall that he took her inside to talk privately. That uncle was such a gentle, beautiful soul whom I grew to love and admire deeply over the years. He was only a few years younger than my grandmother, and he passed away before he turned sixty-four when I was in my teens.
So, if anyone is wondering how and where my gullibility first took its roots, here is its possible starting line in the race of my life.
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